That Night
by mouse-that-roared
Summary: A series about what happened straight after the book ended from various characters' points of view.
1. Mrs Medlock

It was late but the servants' hall was still full. Misselthwaite Manor's entire household staff was sat around the vast scrubbed table on which they took their meals or in the case of the most junior perched shoulder-to-shoulder on top of cupboards and counters leaning forward and swinging their legs. This would normally be unthinkable however without anyone saying a word all rules had been done away with for tonight and everyone knew it.

It had been an extraordinary day one which they discussed endlessly. Trying to piece together what they knew and what they'd seen in the months between that odd girl from India arriving and Master Colin today being revealed not as the half-insane invalid they all took him to be but a tall, strong healthy lad and the girl, Miss Mary, well, she was as bright and cheerful as any child ever was plus pretty with it.

There was so much to talk over and speculate on that no one wanted to go to bed so the servants sat – the table strewn with hams, and bread, and butter dishes to which they helped themselves along with tall glasses of cool lemonade or beer to soothe throats parched by chattering – and gossiped. The suspension of protocol so complete that everyone's opinion from that of little Betty Butterworth the scullery maid to Mrs Medlock herself was afforded the same respect.

A bell rang. The newer servants turned their heads to look at the bells and their neat labels to see which one was making the noise however most of the staff were old hands and could distinguish one bell from another by the smallest change in tone. It was the study bell that rang and everyone knew who it was summoning.

Mrs Medlock got to her feet.

'He has no right to be angry with you, Sarah-Ann,' said Mrs Dixon the head cook. 'No right at all.'

'Aye, but 'e can do what 'e likes though, can't 'e?' someone else pointed out.

'Mebbe won't be so bad. 'E's probably off his head on that stuff anyway,' a third voice chimed in. 'Or dead drunk.'

'Junkie they call it,' added Ben Weatherstaff reaching for a beer jug. As he did the faded serpents and mermaids tattooed on his arms rippled and flexed. As a youth, Ben had sailed on each of the seven seas acquiring a unique store of knowledge. 'Comes from China opium does. Off of the junks which is what a Chinaman calls his ship, see?'

Enjoying this sudden exotic twist to the conversation those around him nodded eagerly.

'Tis a powerful thing an' makes a man into its slave,' Ben continued. 'There's places on any dock int world where you'll find rooms full o' folk lost as ghosts chasing the dragon.'

'Whating the who?' asked one of the footmen.

'More Chinese,' said Ben. 'Like dragons they do.'

Mrs Medlock rolled her eyes as she left the hall. Despite what the others believed she, one of the very few servants who actually spoke with Lord Craven on a daily basis when he was in residence, had never known their master to be anything other than entirely lucid and in control. It suited those that toiled below stairs to have turned their employer into a madman and a drug addict because that was more interesting and provided all sorts of delicious fictional drama which relieved the monotony of work.

That he dosed himself frequently with laudanum was true but then, she charitably thought, he was in pain, almost always as far she could tell, and if that was how he found relief then so be it. She was a kind-hearted soul and did not like to think of others suffering.

The door of Lord Craven's study was always left open so that the dogs could come and go however as Mrs Medlock knocked respectfully on the frame she saw that in a huge snoring heap of boarhound Hector and Paris were curled up together in front of the fire.

'Come, Medlock, won't you sit down?'

Mrs Medlock took one of two unoccupied chairs by the fire. She sat as she had been taught many years ago: bolt upright on the very edge of the seat, legs crossed at the ankles, hands neatly together in her lap so that as little of her as possible was in contact with the chair. It was not her place to sit at ease when in Lord Craven's presence.

The man himself was leaning against the wall cane held loosely in his right hand. Mrs Medlock had been so taken aback by his unexpected arrival and their interview earlier in the day that she had failed to notice how well he looked. She did now and saw that the hollows in his handsome face had filled out a little and that he was no longer deathly pale.

'What has been happening here?' he asked quietly.

'My Lord, I don't quite-'

'Perhaps I should be clear,' said Lord Craven talking over her answer. 'Why have I returned to find so many things changed?'

'It's that girl.' Mrs Medlock hastily corrected herself. 'Miss Mary.'

'A good enough place to begin. Tell me about her.'

Lord Craven become as still as a statue and Mrs Medlock found it surprisingly easy to forget he was there. She gazed into the flames while she talked giving an honest and candid account of all she knew. When she was finished he moved and with a grimace of discomfort that narrowed his coal black eyes sat down opposite her.

'So we've both had quite a shock today,' he said with a smile. 'I must confess that I struggle with the fact that two children managed to deceive a house full of adults but it seems that they did.'

'I am so sorry, my lord,' Mrs Medlock said becoming flustered. 'I take full responsibility I shall resign my place and leave as soon as you wish.'

'Why on earth would I wish that?'

She did not reply.

'You are vital to the running of this house especially now when there is going to be such great change.'

'There is?'

'Colin and Mary need a home, a proper home not somewhere filled with endless locked doors and shuttered windows. Misselthwaite Manor _must_ come alive. If more servants are needed hire them, I trust your judgement completely. If repairs have to be made engage men to carry them out. If more, I don't know, equipment...er...brooms and polish and the like would be beneficial then buy as many as are required.'

Mrs Medlock gasped: this was her dream! It grieved her that such a fine and ancient house had been so thoroughly neglected and now she was the one who would oversee its rescue from cobwebs and decay.

'Whisky!'

Lord Craven's enthusiastic cry made her jump.

'Do you drink whisky, Medlock? Help yourself.' He gestured to the sideboard. 'And I would be grateful if you would also pour one for me.'

The world was upside down! Never had she imagined that she would one day sit sipping whisky with Lord Craven while they discussed as equals the needs of the house and how they would be met. She could scarcely believe it was happening.

'It mustn't end with the garden, do you understand?' Lord Craven said, his face flushed with excitement as he pushed his hair out of his eyes. He looked young, then again, Mrs Medlock reminded herself, he _was_ young. Not yet thirty-five there was no reason why he couldn't still be the master forty years from now. 'It was dead, I'm sure it must have all been stone dead but the children made it live; now we shall do the same for the house. There's going to be building work too. I'm not living alone in the West Wing anymore it can be, it can be demolished for all I care. No, I shall have a proper and modern family wing constructed with a school room and a play room and whatever else it is that the children might need. And I will have new rooms, there's far too many memories in the old and I no longer care to be ceaselessly reminded of them.'

'If you please, my lord, there are improvements needed below stairs as well. That stove's not been changed in three generations poor Mrs Dixon is a martyr to it.'

'Order a new one tomorrow!' roared Lord Craven with gusto. 'I did not think of the servants. I need to start thinking of so many people, Medlock, and when I don't will you please remind me?'

Mrs Medlock nodded at this sincere request. 'I will.'

'Good, we shall be a team you and I. Such a team.'

'And Pitcher,' Mrs Medlock added.

Lord Craven shook his head. 'Pitcher is retiring with my blessing,' he said sadly. 'He is an old man and deserves some softness in his life.'

'Might I make a suggestion?'

Lord Craven made a 'go on' gesture with his free hand.

'I think Pitcher would like to lodge at The Gatehouse with Martin, and Ben Weatherstaff: bachelors together they'd be company and he can come up to the hall whenever he likes for a bite to eat. He'd enjoy that and it would break his heart to be far from you.'

She said no more on the subject knowing Pitcher and Lord Craven to be very dear to each other.

'That is excellent advice, thank you.'

Lord Craven shifted in his chair suddenly seeming unable to get comfortable, he stood up and leaned heavily on his cane. Head bowed while he struggled to regain his breath.

'I need to lie down,' he said calmly. 'We will talk more tomorrow.'

'Does tha' need 'elp?' Mrs Medlock asked tenderly, then horrified clapped a hand over her mouth. Unthinkingly, perhaps aided by the whisky and the two glasses of beer she'd had before that, she'd lapsed into the swift, simple Yorkshire dialect that she took great care never to speak in front of her betters.

Lord Craven chuckled without malice at her distress.

'No, I shall be all right as long as I go slowly, thank you for asking. Kindness is always appreciated; I don't care how you express it.'

Mrs Medlock rose also and went to leave turning when Lord Craven called out.

'One thing,' he said. 'There's a change I will make this instant. You are a lady and should be addressed as one. It will be Mrs Medlock from now on.'

'Yes, my lord,' Mrs Medlock said. 'Thank you.'

Heart singing, she hurried down to the servants' hall where a dozen wagging tongues fell silent when she appeared.

'You've been gone an age,' Mrs Dixon exclaimed. 'What happened?'

''E sacked thee,' someone guessed.

'Sacked us all,' said someone else.

'The house is bein' torn down.'

'Nah, tis being painted bright blue all over.'

There were giggles at that last comment which gave rise to a volley of humorous suggestions that everyone laughed over.

'We're all gettin' paid in moonbeams from now on.'

''E wants us to build a river in the ballroom.'

''We all have t'grow beards.'

'What about the women?'

'_Especially_ the women!'

The laughter died down and the servants stared at Mrs Medlock expectantly. Eyes resting on dozens of familiar, trusting faces she felt a rush of affection for them all.

She smiled warmly.

'You'll never guess what we're about to do...'


	2. Dr Craven

Dr Joseph Craven stood in the East Landing's huge and many-paned window staring down at the lawn in horror as he watched a father and a son walking back to the house. When Colin began to jump about out of sheer good-natured high spirits and Archie's face lit up with laughter, Joseph had to bite down hard on his knuckle to prevent himself from crying out in distress.

'What happens now?' asked Irene Goodwin, the large and gregarious young woman who had what the doctor always regarded as the misfortune to be Colin's latest nurse. 'Will I be dismissed?'

It was the note of hope in her voice that annoyed him. He knew how much she did not like her place at Misselthwaite Manor or indeed her chosen profession. She disliked the country and disliked the sick what on earth she thought she was doing working as a nurse Joseph had no idea.

'I don't know what is about to happen,' he replied. 'And, young lady, I have far more important things to consider than your farce of a career.'

He turned on his heels and stalked away.

On reaching the sanctuary of the room he'd set up as an office he closed the door and for a terrible moment felt that he might burst into tears.

That boy, that wretched selfish boy! What trick, what device had he employed to fool them all? And worst of all how had he, Dr Joseph Craven graduate of Gonville and Caius College, Cambridge and member of the Royal Society of Medicine been so easily deceived by a boy, a mere boy, a clear thirty years his junior?

Minutes ago it had been Joseph's professional opinion that Colin was a seriously ill child so weakened by spending his entire life in bed that his body was all but useless; now that was utterly without foundation. Wildly, Joseph grabbed one of the many loose-leafed files of notes that he had written up during his young patient's lifetime and threw it at the wall where it burst on impact and sent paper cascading everywhere.

It was all wrong! All meaningless! The last ten years wasted! Even at a distance Joseph had clearly seen that Colin was a healthy and robust lad and that Archie was looking better than he had done in years.

With a roar of anger Joseph swept everything off his desk then threw himself down on his chair and sat with his head in his heads. His great gamble had not paid off. He would not be the Master of Misselthwaite Manor now.

It had seemed such a simple plan. Lilias had died so Joseph, who was from the poorer side of the Craven family and actually had to work for a living unlike his cousin Archie who'd merely had to be born and then inherit to become one of the richest men in the Empire, had left his thriving London practice and set himself up as the doctor in Thwaite village and personal physician to Archie who had gone clean off his head with grief and his sickly new-born son who was not expected to live a month if that.

It had been perfect. Joseph was not an unscrupulous man he would never have harmed Archie or Colin and he told himself that he didn't have to because the baby would die and Archie would soon follow unable to bear the stress of his wild, unnatural seeming mourning on top of the pain of the kyphosis that had bent his spine and made his shoulders crooked. It wouldn't take long, Joseph had decided, and then he'd be Lord Craven and the house he'd loved from afar all his life plus the land, riches and prestige that went with it would be his.

And then he'd got stuck.

Archie had regained his wits, learned how to manage his pain and began his restless travels and the baby had clung onto to life to become a demanding, fretful toddler and then a ghastly, hysterical child with no redeeming features that Joseph could detect. They'd lived: the crippled, solipsistic father and his lunatic son, and left Joseph marooned in a small village performing operations on kitchen tables and frequently accepting meat and vegetables as fees instead of money.

'God damn it!' Joseph screamed aloud as he thumped his fist into the desk. His covetous desire of Misselthwaite had seen him throw away his entire thirties, the decade of a man's life where he should be consolidating his position and becoming someone of worth and achievement, and in the end it had got him nothing.

He'd cut himself off from everything that he regarded as civilised to live amongst dull-witted peasant folk and been thoroughly miserable in the process. It had never occurred to Joseph that he could have been happy in Thwaite and loved and respected by all if only he'd stopped looking down on his fellow villagers and mistaking a general lack of education for a lack of intelligence and soul. He was a crushing snob of the worst kind and his prejudice had made him lonely.

Eventually, he brought himself under some sort of control and got to his feet. He was going to have go downstairs and plaster a smile on his face when he saw Colin and say...what could he say? Should he abandon all his hard-won scientific knowledge and talk of miracles? Was there anything he could do right now to look less of an idiot?

As he approached the drawing room, Joseph could hear laughter and breathless childish chattering and a nerve in his cheek twitched as he swallowed back his anger and deep, deep disappointment that things were as they are.

He hesitated in the doorway only to be spotted by Archie who quickly bid Colin to pause for a moment then came and stood close.

Joseph went to speak but found himself silenced by an upraised hand.

'Well, don't we have a lot to discuss, cousin?' said Archie in a sarcastic but quiet voice. He obviously didn't want Colin to hear him. 'Someone has made a tremendous error and right now I can't think who else it could be apart from you.'

'Archie I-'

'No, not now. I'm busy with my son,' He couldn't help but smile a little as he said those last two words. 'Go home, Joseph. I'll send for you when I am ready to hear what I can only imagine will be an outstanding litany of excuses.'

He towered over Joseph who for a second was afraid that Archie might strike him.

'All those letters you sent me,' seethed Archie. ' "_Colin remains very ill. We are so worried. I continue to do my best but there is little hope_." And on and on. How could you? How could you lie? What did I ever do to you that meant you would torment me like that?'

Joseph looked up into Archie's furious eyes and decided that it would be wise to stay silent.

'Get out,' Archie commanded. 'Thwaite excepted, you will not set foot on my land until I say so. And unless you can somehow give a truly _remarkable_ account of your conduct you won't be the doctor there for many more days. You can go back to your precious London and...' Archie shrugged. 'I don't care what you do. As long as you're not doing it anywhere near me.'

After one last glare Archie went back inside the drawing room leaving Joseph to summon a footman to get him his hat and coat and give orders for his carriage to be brought around to the front. For so long he'd dreamed of the day he'd come up the drive as the Master of Misselthwaite Manor now he was going in the other direction away from the house he'd so ardently desired with his dreams in tatters.

He sat in the privacy of the rattling carriage and wept.


End file.
